


kief

by allmyloyaldead (van1lla_v1lla1n)



Series: succession sprinkles [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Dry Humping, Hand & Finger Kink, Other, POV Second Person, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/pseuds/allmyloyaldead
Summary: You watch the smoke drift out of his mouth, that round bottom lip pursed beneath the wide bow, those long eyelashes fluttering, head relaxed against the headrest. He’s a gorgeous fucking loser.---Greg tokes up with another loser he meets in the management training program.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Other(s)
Series: succession sprinkles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011780
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	kief

You’re sitting in Greg’s car, in some rinkydink amusement park parking lot, after an exhaustingly boring day of bullshit management training. It’s dark, the nothing hours of not-night and not-morning, and a single lightpole flickers a few hundred yards away.

Greg loads a pinch-hitter, long fingers shaky on the tiny thing, delicately pressing stray bits of bud into the end. No waste. He looks up at you hesitantly, questioningly, and you shake your head, just watch as he brings it to his mouth to light it for himself. His massive hands cup around the slender piece and the lighter, framing his face, and the little flame lights up his furrowed brow, casts a shadow into the parenthetical line from his nose to the corner of his mouth, the predestination of a bored middle age.

You try to imagine this guy aged up, some suit in a glassy office, signing off on budget decisions or some shit, but all you can see is guileless little Greg in a red Gamestop polo, pontificating about a new game to some girl who already knows exactly what she wants.

You watch the smoke drift out of his mouth, that round bottom lip pursed beneath the wide bow, those long eyelashes fluttering, skull back against the headrest. He’s a gorgeous fucking loser, and neither he nor you will never have anyone to tell about this night. It will never happen again; it will never matter to anyone but you.

He loads up again, offers the piece to you again, and just like last time you shake your head, but this time you squeeze yourself across the seat to straddle his lap, and he fumbles, holding the pinch-hitter up like a champagne toast, to lay the seat back so you’ll fit above him in the little car that already barely manages to fit him.

Your gaze drifts along his fingers, his lips, as he hits it, and then you lean in to press your mouth to his, inhaling his smoke, sucking the air out of his lungs and licking the burn out of his mouth. He drops the piece and the lighter to grip your ribs, and this is your high, grinding yourself to dust on his body.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry @ Cousin Greg this is so mean to your baby pilot self (and it is also woefully unedited) but the election is making me angsty
> 
> listen tho:
> 
> okay? okay.


End file.
